


Dishabille

by notjustmom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, M/M, Sherlock is miserable, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7088098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dishabille: noun: dis-ə-ˈbēl, -ˈbil: the state of being dressed in a casual or careless style</p><p>French déshabillé, from past participle of déshabiller to undress, from dés- dis- + habiller to dress; first known use: 1673</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dishabille

John sighed. He was used to seeing Sherlock in a general state of dishabille, when not out on a case, but this was different. His face was flushed, raven curls plastered to his forehead, and the sheets were pushed down to the foot of the bed. His gown had been thrown off, and his shirt was soaked through.

"Love?" 

He placed a hand against his lover's forehead and shook his head.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened one eye and reached for John, pulling him towards him.

"Why didn't you text me?" John whispered.

"Forgot to charge it, damn thing is dead. Everything hurts, I'm cold, then hot, then cold again. I feel dreadful-"

"Shhh, I'm here now." 

John went to the kitchen and brought back paracetamol and juice, made Sherlock sit up long enough to take them, then helped him to a chair, so he could change the sheets.

"Hold on, just a tic, yeah?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded as he shivered.

John removed Sherlock's damp shirt and put a new one on him, then lifted him in his arms and carried him to bed. He undressed to his pants and slid into bed next to the detective, who snuggled up against him. "I missed you," Sherlock whimpered softly, so different than his normal strong, beautiful voice, that John held him tighter against his chest, as if he could make him better, simply by wishing it so.

"I'm sorry, love."

"Tell me something you saw today," Sherlock mumbled against John's chest. "Tell me, anything at all, doesn't matter what."

"At lunch, I went to that cafe, the one you grumble about..."

"Never enough sugar - burn their coffee - terrible...."

"Yeah, but they have shorter lines. I got my not-so-burnt coffee, and sat outside, and watched the people pass, and knew you could tell me their histories, but all I saw were men, women and children just getting on with things, walking towards something, someone, someplace - or if they weren't as lucky as I am, they were just moving, so no one trampled them. I used to be one of those unlucky ones, just a mover, trying to stay out of the way. Until you, love. You gave me a thing, a one, a place to come home to. A little girl waved at me. She had dark curls and blue eyes, and I thought of you, and I waved back...."

"Do you ever wish -"

"No. No, love," John shook his head. "I never wanted to be responsible for anyone that small, that depended on me for everything..."

"You would have been a good father, John."

"No, I should worry too much, be afraid to let them out of my sight. You are all the family I need, love. You are enough, now go to sleep."

"Stay?"

"Of course, where would I go?"

Sherlock relaxed against John's chest and soon drifted off. John pulled him closer and kissed his hair, before falling asleep himself.


End file.
